Revived Spirits (23 page)

A sword at the back of the shop caught his eye. He darted past the surprised shopkeeper and pulled it off the wall.

“Are you interested in that piece, sir? No silver on it, but it’s a very fine seventeenth-century hunting hanger. The blade is single-edged and curved, as you can see. Staghorn handle’s in perfect condition, and the owner’s name’s engraved on the knucklebar.”

“Hmm. . .R. Clark. Didn’t know him, but it was before my time.”

The owner gave him a puzzled look.

“Could be a naval officer’s sword,” said Morehouse, hefting the weapon and keeping an eye on the shop windows at the same time.

“Very good, sir! Naval officers in the sixteen hundreds often used hunting hangers. This one’s priced at seven hundred fifty pounds, but I could let it go for seven hundred.”

Lance’s minions slipped in at the shop door.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a shield about the place, would you?” Morehouse grabbed the handle of a silver tea service, sending the teapot, sugar bowl and creamer clattering to the floor, pulling the tray to his chest for protection.

The dealer’s mouth popped open, but he made only a squeak, as a strong arm reached from behind and gripped his neck like a vise. Lance’s helper held a gun to the old man’s head with his free hand, while his partner rushed at Morehouse.

The partner pulled his own gun from a shoulder holster and aimed it at Morehouse as he closed the distance between them.

Morehouse feinted to his attacker’s left, thrusting the sword just enough to distract him, then lunged and flicked the gun from the man’s hand. He’d meant only to knock it to the floor, but the tip of the blade nicked the webbing between the thug’s forefinger and thumb, and a small red fountain spurted.

“Shoot him, would you?” he shouted, waving his hand at his partner. “Look—I’m bleeding, and that blade’s probably filthy with germs. I’ll need a tetanus sho—”

A metallic thunk interrupted his request and he sank to the floor, unconscious.

“You shouldn’t’ve gone and done that!” the first thug shouted at Morehouse, pressing his gun barrel hard at the merchant’s right temple. “I can hang onto the old man whilst shooting you, and still have my hostage.”

It was true. The hostage was a couple of inches shorter, several pounds lighter, and a few decades older than his captor. And his right arm was jammed up against his body. His left hand was free, which probably counted for nothing.

Still, bravado had saved him before. He grinned and said, “You don’t want to fire that thing in here. The bullet might ricochet right off this tray and fly back at you.”

The shopkeeper’s left arm snaked backward. His fingers closed around a tall silver candlestick on a nearby table. Slowly, silently, the candlestick rose.

“Sorry, chum, a bit of silver’s no match for a bul—”

The merchant nodded in satisfaction as Morehouse whistled and said, “These lads have trouble finishing their sentences, don’t they? How’d you manage that?”

“I snatched the nearest piece of inventory I could reach. I still play tennis. . .” He smiled. “And I’m left-handed.”

Just Lance now to deal with, and he might get out of here yet. Morehouse shouted, “Call the police!” and waved the sword. “Need to borrow this a bit longer.”

The dealer looked up in dismay. “There’s more?”

He held the door for Morehouse, turning the “Open” sign to “Closed.” He followed him out, slamming the door shut and twisting the key in the deadbolt lock while he struggled to pull his mobile out of his pocket.

Morehouse took off at a dead run, vowing to join a gym if he lived through this. He hadn’t gone far before Lance’s men had found him, but that point of geography might play in his favor now, as the main entrance was only about fifty yards away.

All the commotion had drawn a small crowd out into the mall area, and mobile phones appeared at ears, with variations of, “There’s a lunatic running through the Vaults with a sword!” pinged off the walls and down the hallways. It occurred to him that the average bystander might assume he was the criminal, and he hoped to be able to sort that out later.

Another ten yards or so. Then what?

There was no time to consider it. Out the door of the last shop came Lance, his gun pointed straight at Morehouse. Screams split the air and people scattered.

Lance seemed oblivious to the sounds. He was completely focused, holding his gun with both hands and glowering at Morehouse.

Morehouse knew that look—he’d seen it in Octavius’s eyes not long ago. Ironic: it looked as if Lance was about to finish what his ancestor would have liked to do.

He had nothing to ward off the bullets. The silver tray lay on the shop floor, forgotten in his haste to leave. He gripped the antique sword.

“You!  And those brats!”

“Leave them out of it, Lance—your quarrel’s with me. And you’d better not’ve hurt them.”

“Ha! I left them for Nigel and Eddie to dispose of. You’re mine.”

Morehouse slowly tightened his grip on the sword handle and centered his weight, ready to spring.

Cumpston gave a thin smile. “You didn’t do a very good job protecting your young friends. They never called the police, and Tommy phoned to say he lured them into the car, where all three of them fit nicely into the boot.”

Morehouse had nothing to go on but sheer rage and willpower. At a distance of only about ten feet, Lance couldn’t miss, but the first shot probably wouldn’t kill him instantly. Might as well do some damage on the way down, maybe even take Lance with him.

The sound of the gun was deafening, and the pain in his head was stunning. Blood filled his eyes, but he didn’t need to see or hear to find Lance. Instinct guided him forward, and he knew he was about to make contact when a fire erupted in his shoulder.

Then the world fell on top of him, and there was nothing.

Jagged pieces of consciousness stabbed at the pleasant curtain of blackness. Morehouse was on the floor, but someone was cradling his head and shoulders, wiping the blood from his eyes. His temporary deafness was replaced by a painful roar in both ears, and over it he heard a familiar voice.

“This is getting a bit tiresome.”

He opened his eyes to slits, and gave a moan of despair: Tommy. But. . .there were police everywhere, and people carrying Lance away on a stretcher. And Tommy seemed to be in charge of it.

“What do you mean?”

“We just went through a similar drama with your young friends at the Soane Museum, though I’m pleased to report no one was shot.”

“That’s a relief.  Just me, eh?”

“Two places, mate. A nice, clean hole through your shoulder. Bullet went right in and out—we collected it already. The other’s a crease to your skull. Lots of blood, not much damage though, I think.”

Morehouse struggled against the wave of nausea stirred by hearing about his own injuries. His ears were still ringing, and he couldn’t tell if the voices of the other police were near or far away.

He complained, “Have you any idea how difficult it is to find a copper when you need one?”

Tommy chuckled. “I shouldn’t wonder—we had the whole neighborhood cordoned off. Put out word through the media for folks to stay inside or stay away.”

“What about Cumpston?”

“Hmph. He did some damage to himself on that sword, but he’ll live.”

“You mean he just fell on it—all by himself?”

“More or less. We came dashing in just as he was stepping forward to shoot you in the face. We startled him and ruined his aim, which is how your shoulder got clipped. You fell to the floor, still holding up the sword. I must say, your form was rather impressive. A single thrust at Cumpston, and he lost his footing. Fell on top of you and skewered himself. Nearly squashed you in the process.” He scanned Morehouse’s blood stained body. “Hurt a lot?”

Morehouse nodded and was grateful when a medic appeared at his side with an IV and bag. Almost immediately, the pain decreased and he drifted off to sleep.

Morehouse’s hospital room was a mirror image of the one Liv had just left. During her overnight observation, a nurse had awakened her every thirty minutes to ask how she felt, and now she was ready for a nice, long nap.

Mrs. Wescott had spent the night on a cot by Liv’s side, and she’d withheld questions so far. Her dad had probably grilled Anthony and Cal by now. As a lawyer, he’d know just how to do it.

He’d brought the boys with him to the hospital, and was downstairs with Mrs. Wescott, completing paperwork for her release. It gave Liv, Anthony and Cal a chance to “drop in and thank the nice man” who’d come to their aid:  Morehouse.

“It’s good to see you three,” said Morehouse, wincing as he sat up in his hospital bed. “I expect to be discharged later today, and our paths might not cross again. Tommy—Inspector Harper —called, and he’s dropping by for a visit. Or a grilling, depending on your point of view. I’m happy to tell him everything I know about Lance and company, but it’s going to get a bit sticky explaining our friendship and how we came to be where we were. I don’t suppose you’ve spilled it all, or you’d probably be in a mental ward right now.”

Liv bit her lip and looked at Anthony and Cal.

“We told my dad as much as we could,” Anthony said. “It’s true that we met in St. Augustine, bumped into each other here at the airport, and barely said hi. It’s also true that Cumpston saw it and overreacted, and that he’s a nutcase.”

Anthony squirmed. “I lied to Dad about a few things, but it’s true that Cumpston was spying and jumped to crazy conclusions. He did chase us for no good reason and you did risk your life to save us.”

He ran his hand through his hair. “We might be able to avoid too many probing questions by acting traumatized, and that won’t be much of an act.”

The hospital door swung open. “Ah, the gang’s all here.”

Tommy—Inspector Thomas Harper—lumbered in and eased his bulky frame into a chair evidently made with only lightweight visitors in mind.

Liv heard shallow breathing. Her own. She did her best to look calm, while Anthony plunged in. “Wow! Thanks for saving me, Inspector Harper—that was cool!”

Here come the questions, she thought grimly, but the detective surprised her. “I suppose you’re wondering what’s been going on—I’ll fill you in.”

He turned to Morehouse. “And you can answer some questions later, if you’re feeling up to it.” Morehouse nodded.

He pointed to his broken nose. “I had this souvenir from my boxing days in school, but a run-in with a suspect a couple of years ago completed my gangster look, so to speak. That gave the Chief Inspector a brilliant idea: plant me undercover to infiltrate Cumpston’s fraud network, before I had reconstructive surgery. The Kensington and Chelsea Council’s Claims Investigation Group requested help some time ago, and our sting has been a year-long affair.”

He grinned. “It’s turned out so well that now he wants me to order up a completely different nose, get the birthmark removed, and embed myself in a new undercover operation, but that’s another story. Last night, our team conducted a raid of several rented flats and residential hotels in the northeast Kensington area belonging to Lance Cumpston. We arrested Pridgeon and McKnickel, along with several tenants, the ones that tried the same scheme on their own, collecting their housing benefit cheques and subletting to illegals.”

Liv held up a newspaper. “Dad brought a copy of the
Times
this morning. It looks like more of your crew were busy in Portobello Road yesterday while Cumpston was chasing us.”

She read aloud:

“Trading Standards officers, accompanied by police, conducted an inspection of Portobello Road merchants and seized the inventory of the antiques firm of Cumpston, Pridgeon and McKnickel. An associate, Robert Morehouse, is wanted for questioning. Though not officially a ‘person of interest’, Council officers would like to speak to Morehouse as part of their ‘complete cleansweep’.”

Liv lowered the paper and looked at the inspector.

Harper winked. “I think they won’t be able to find him.”

Liv continued reading:

“Unofficial estimates of Cumpston’s housing fraud scheme alone range from ten thousand to twenty thousand pounds per week.”

Harper shook his head. “Twenty-five’s more like it, judging from what I saw.”

Morehouse whistled. “That’s well over a million pounds a year.”

“And that’s not even figuring in a penny from their shop or import/export business.” He gave Morehouse a penetrating look. “Is there anything I should know?”

Morehouse squirmed in his hospital bed. “I sold a few high-priced items with less than solid provenance.”

Harper raised his eyebrows.

“What’s provenance?” asked Cal.

Morehouse offered, “It’s proof of the history of a piece —the sort of stuff that affects the price.” He made a show of straightening his sheet, discouraging more questions.

“That may not be ethical,”said Harper,“but it’s not technically against the law to be a smooth talker. If you mean deals like the Havards’ armchair, they let you charm them into that one. You never actually said it was eighteenth century, or that it had been owned by royalty.”